On Getting Away

I like traveling alone. At least flying. On the bus I could take it or leave it.

If you’re by yourself, the pressure to make it any place on time feels lower.

My parents are anxious flyers. We’re late to everything and the airport is no exception. Every little rule is a cause for stress. No liquid over 3 oz. Don’t forget to take your folding scissors out of your purse! What’s TSA pre-check?

It didn’t bother me growing up. I just assumed flying was an anxiety-producing experience for everyone. And not the typical anxiety of “maybe the plane will go down” or “maybe my flight will be canceled.” Those are normal anxieties for normal people.

We were more afraid that we wouldn’t make it to a flight we’d already paid for. We never had a lot of money for vacations, so often we’d prioritize visiting my dad’s side of the family in St. Louis. Missing the flight meant missing our “vacation.” Then we’d have to miss the 100 degree, 98% humidity Missouri summers I was so looking forward to. Who would talk Christian ethics with my uncle? Fox News alerts with my aunt? Who would sit on the porch breathing in cigarette smoke, listening to how Obamacare was the worst thing to happen to anyone?

I’m being sadistic now. I didn’t mind the cigarette smoke then and I don’t mind it now. Although that’s because I associate it with Las Vegas mostly. The bright lights. The white tigers. The pictures of mostly naked ladies with stars covering their boobs tossed out in the streets. The oasis of air-conditioned casinos amidst the 115 degree weather. I loved it. I loved its excess and refusal to pretend to be anything other than its Sin City self. At least Vegas was a dry heat.

Missouri summers felt like sweat. Sweat the instant you stepped outside, any time of day. I dreaded being outdoors, but I’d put up with it for trips to the zoo, or Grant’s Farm. I liked seeing all the images of proud Clydesdales escorted by brave Dalmatians. I liked feeding the goats and having them jump up to nibble on my hair. And as much as I have mixed feelings about my relatives’ house, I loved visiting the horses, and flat-hand feeding them carrots.

I didn’t always hate Missouri. I hate aspects of it, like how women can be fired for using birth control because of their employers “religious convictions.” I hate that all their magic shows and dog shows and variety shows end with a nationalistic military display. I hate that their racist Civil War statues stand. I hate that Christian slogans and Sunday school games are in every theme park, gift shop, and ice cream parlor. I can come up with many logical, after-the-fact reasons why I hate going there.

But mostly I hate that’s that where it happened. I hate what he did to me in the basement. I hate how we didn’t visit for almost a decade because of it. And I hate going back and feeling like nothing but everything has changed.

…..

I’ve been reading about empaths. Empaths are people who can feel other people’s emotions. I think I am one. I began really picking up on other people’s feelings around 5th grade, about the time it happened. Because my abuser never threatened me. He never told me not to tell. I just knew it would be preferred if I didn’t say anything. So for awhile, I didn’t.

In a weird way, I don’t even think he meant me any harm. It was never about me. Most things people do to you aren’t about you. They’re about them. They’re about how they feel about themselves. They’re about hurt they’ve buried and usually never look at, bubbling up at unexpected times. They’re about passing on that trauma, in hopes that they’ll feel lighter after. Better. They’re about feeling powerful in that moment when someone else has made them feel powerless. It doesn’t work, really. That’s why they feel like they have to try it again.

All those things I had to pick up on when I was 10 years old. Things I never wanted to know or feel. People’s base, selfish instincts. Things I pick up on now, from a friend’s dad’s too-long hug goodbye. From a boyfriend’s uncles lingering glance. I can’t give them the opportunity to do anything, I think to myself. I can’t act any way towards them that would be considered encouragement, flirting. I know I will be blamed for taking down the image someone has of their dad, their uncle. Why were you talking to him by yourself? Why did you wear that to a family gathering? You got too drunk, you forgot yourself. But how did pre-pubescent me ever present an opportunity?

Apparently empaths don’t always do well in airports, because they can be overstimulated by picking up on the feelings of everyone around them. But for me, traveling alone makes tuning out the other people easier. The energies of those I’m close with give me more trouble. Traveling alone means I don’t have to tune out my father complaining about finding a bathroom. It means I don’t have to tune out my mom’s anxiety about finding the gate. It means I don’t have to take part in the frantic scramble to check-in, find boarding passes. I can glide through the airport and appreciate the organization, the frequent and clear signage. Its hustle and directness and purpose. Responsible only for myself, I can sit alone and read, or write, or sleep. I can be among the clouds, and visit the physical place I spend so much time escaping to in my m